The young man was now a responsible member of a business firm which handled a large trade. The days when he had ridden pony express, even the ones when he had left the army with a sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve, belonged to his adventurous past. Young as he was, Hugh served on civic committees and attended board of trade banquets. In his heart sometimes he rebelled. He did not look forward with eagerness to the day when he would be a leading citizen with an equatorial paunch. The blood of youth still sang in him a saga of untravelled trails.
Perhaps that was why he chose to ride to Piodie instead of taking a seat beside “Pony” King on the stage. It was a day of the gods as he rode up the Geiger Grade from B Street. His lungs drank in the rare air like wine. The sky was crystal clear except for a long-drawn wisp of cloud above the summit of Mt. Davidson. Below him a cañon cleft the hills, and beyond its winding gorge was a glimpse of soft-toned desert through which ran a gleaming silver ribbon edged with the green of cottonwood foliage. Far away, at the horizon edge, were white mountain barriers, the Sierras to the right, the Humboldt and the Pine Nut ranges to the east.
It was noon when he reached Reno, the new town which had just changed its name from End-of-the-Track. The Central Pacific, built the previous year, had brought Reno into existence. It was still a little village. If any one had predicted then that the day was coming when both Carson and Virginia would be displaced in importance by the little railroad station Reno, he would have been judged a poor guesser.
Hugh jogged along at the steady road gait which is neither quite a trot nor a walk. The miles fell behind him hour after hour. The sun sank into the hills and left behind it a great splash of crimson glory. This faded to a soft violet, which in turn deepened to a lake of purple as the evening shadows lengthened.
The traveller camped in the sage. He scooped out a hole in the soft sand and built in it a fire of greasewood and brush. This he kept replenished till it was full of live coals. He knew it would last till morning without fresh fuel. Supper finished, he rolled up in his blanket and found for a pillow the softest spot in the saddle.
His brain buzzed with thoughts of the old riding days when life had been an adventure and not a humdrum business. Into his memory there sang itself a chantey of the trail. He found himself now murmuring the words drowsily:
“Last night as I lay on the prairie,
And looked at the stars in the sky,
I wondered if ever a cowboy
Would drift to that sweet by and by.